A/N: Ehe thank you for waiting patiently for this chapter I've been dying to write since the start of this entire series. HEHE. I'd like you to know that I am so, very honored if you're still here or have decided to stay and wait for this moment. It feels like the crystallization of a push and pull: that in the end, Vanilla and Leroy understand each other more than they ever thought they did. 

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[Leroy]

I was seven when Annie had to explain what the term 'divorce' meant. She said it was a thing that happened when people who were once in love decided that was no longer the case. So papers needed to be signed and lawyers needed to be hired to do the talking because the people who were once in love would not—and when all was said and done, the people could spend their time apart no longer as one. She'd said that to some, this was the happier ending; that sometimes, going separate ways could be a different, but better ever after. Siegfried was the one who disagreed.

I never knew why he did; he wasn't the sort of person who'd bother explaining things to his kid that were a tad too complicated for seven years of living and figured I wouldn't understand either way. Annie said he had the mind of a sheep. The kind that moved in flocks and thought the same as others only because it was too fond of being liked and couldn't behave otherwise. He'd never do anything out of the norm—whatever that was, established by a society that existed only in the heads of the lambs.

So it made sense how he'd made it into the hearts of an audience. A following that grew so deep and rooted in his mind that it was near impossible for him to remove and turn around or start anew. He became what the audience thought he was and stayed that way.

A good, honest chef with a couple of Michelin stars, a handsome face, and the charisma of an entertainer; who just so happened to prefer keeping family matters private and separate.

So Annie and Siegfried never signed the papers. He didn't want to. Someone like him would never risk the possibility of being singled out by people looking for a scoop because reputation was key and quite honestly, all that he had.

I don't know if he ever found someone else and started anew like Annie did with Rexi but it was what he said sipping that coffee out on the veranda in the vanilla farm, looking up at the sky with the clouds in his eyes that gave me the slightest idea. That maybe he did.

And maybe just like before, he'd given it up like the coward he was; because falling in love with that someone else was a risk and to him, that was all it was.

The entire thing made the rest of the trip back to the resort feel a tad unreal and it was only after seeing my personal snowstorm reading a book in a corner of the main lobby with a cup of tea by his side that the noise in my head died out.

"Goodness, I've been looking all over the place for you!" "Aw you missed me." "You didn't respond to my texts! And mind you, the only reason I've been out here waiting for hours on end is because you asked me to." "So you missed me." "You asked to meet me and, well, admittedly I'd only gotten to reading your text an hour past the time that was arranged so I'd made my way here as fast as I could and look at all the panic you've caused! All this without an explanation. It's a miracle I still—"

You could see the gears in his head come to a gradual stop. His ears darkened.

"Still...?" I approached.

He backed off, looking away. "Oh be quiet. I am very upset with you."

"With good reason," I admitted, stopping at less than a foot between us. "Sorry. They had a trip to a local spice farm I thought we could go together at three in the afternoon. I went alone since I figured you were busy. Not the best decision."

His gaze flickered to something past my shoulder. "Did something happen? Your father... I mean, Siegfried. He tagged along?"

"Didn't expect to see him there but," I followed his gaze. There was a small party of four gathered around the celebrity, cocktails in hand as the evening began to settle. He looked like he belonged. "I was running low on energy. Could've used a snowstorm."

Said snowy delight rolled his eyes, reaching up to fix my collar. "Hm, I wouldn't know about that. You seem fairly well and alive. Meanwhile, I've been sitting out here simmering in a pot of anxiety, wondering where a certain idiot had gone; how ever will he make it up to me?"

I laughed, raising an organic-looking package bundled up in kraft paper and rope I got from the farm. "He got you something."

"A souvenir?" He blinked, accepting the gift carefully and then pausing as he felt it in his hands. "It smells amazing, that's for sure. Is this really...? I wasn't serious about the um, the making it up to me. You don't have to."

"Open it." I nodded at the package.

He gave me a look that said I'd been smirking the entire time. "A spice farm, was it? Judging by the fragrance all over the material, I'm assuming it's either some part of a raw ingredient. Fresh and unprocessed, most likely hand-picked..."

It was a bundle of vanilla beans; honestly an impulse buy. They were packing a bunch of them for delivery when I asked if they had any up for sale. The owner of the farm picked out the best bundle of the lot and said he'd make an exception for me in exchange for a picture. I thought it was a steal.

"A steal?" He laughed almost knowingly. It sounded like the chill of icicles. "With looks of your caliber, I wouldn't be surprised if people start asking for your autograph as soon as the first episode of the show premieres! Oh the state of the human race..."

I was about to ask what the word caliber meant but figured he was paying me a compliment in secret only because he was far too embarrassed to admit I looked good to him. Hence the complex vocabulary.

"Yes Leroy, from a socially conventional perspective, you are very attractive. Objectively speaking." "What about subjecti—" "There is no 'subjectively speaking' in my realm of thinking now be quiet." Yes that was an imaginary conversation. Yes he exists in my head all the time. Yes I'm in too deep.

"Thank you," he held the gift close to his chest. "I like it very much. And I suppose I am now obliged to... make you something vanilla-flavored in return?"

"I like that you offered."

"Hm... so what exactly did you learn at the tour?"

"I'll tell you if you finish your sentence from before."

"Y—that's..." He gathered the rest of his things to busy himself but it was really just that one book he'd brought along. "You're the silliest person on earth, still thinking about that. I um, I'm dinnertime. I mean its dinnertime, a-and I'm hungry—as you should be, too. Today has been exceptionally long, filled with exhausting matters like meetings and and and preparations for tomorrow's main challenge, which, albeit involving some fair excitement about select few aspects, was quite frankly a bore in everything else so... a good evening's rest. Now. If you please."

I thought of letting him off easy but the extra little amusement was too good an opportunity to miss out on. "Care to elaborate on your idea of... a good evening's rest?"

He cleared his throat. "Well, first. Dinner, of course... some room service would be delightful."

"...that's your idea of exciting?"

"A good evening's rest does not necessarily constitute some form of excitement—though very much welcome—I raised the notion of it only because I'd spent most of the day completing boring tasks and um, well, any time spent with you is... for the most part..."

"Exciting?" I finished, getting in the mood for my daily fill. They call it sustenance; the way he responded to my teasing, and it was on me to ensure routine servings of snow.

What I hadn't expected was for him to turn the tables while he was browsing the resort's online room service menu, distracted by the options. "Wh... yes of course. I'm always... I look forward to spending time with you every day. Doesn't matter what we're doing. Goodness, what lovely pictures. It's a pity the user interface doesn't do the menu any justice, I struggle just navigating from the mains to the desserts—oh, the little green rolls. I've been eyeing them since the day before when I saw someone selling them by the street. And skewers on lemongrass sticks! You'd like those. What do you think? Most of the contestants have decided to dine out for the evening and Chef Pao's taken the production team to a restaurant nearby. We could dine in my room if you'd like?"

He looked up from his phone as he asked, eyes searching mine. "Leroy?"

In them, I saw a pool on a midsummer evening; waters that would have tasted sweet. For a moment, there was something in the air. A scent that was warm and lingered while I watched the past in his eyes.

He then noticed I was adrift, and smiled in a way that cleared the clouds. "Take your time."

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It was six in the morning when my phone buzzed its way off the bedside table and fell to the floor.

"...Leroy?"

I'd crashed at a certain special someone's room the night before, tempted by the offer he raised after dinner about watching the kids so I could have a good night's rest before the full-day shoot we had in store for the next day. Stuff happened; my boy and his cat friend refused to go separate ways after dinner and play, and I'd missed the perfect window of time for a sneaky escape.

Our rooms were located in separate villas—which meant I hadn't exactly the best excuse for dropping by and while his place had been sorta empty when we first called for room service, half the production crew had returned in the time we spent together. The solution we came up with was some kind of stake-out. Thing. Watching and waiting for a good time when everyone else was asleep or had headed back to their rooms, away from the common areas.

I crashed after an hour of waiting.

And I imagine the owner of the room hadn't the will or the heart to do anything about it.

"Leroy... it's your phone."

"I got it."

Chicken got it. He nosed my buzzing phone with a now-cracked screen closer to the bed until it was within my reach. I gave the caller ID a glance. The firehouse.

A single nerve had the rest of my mind ablaze and I was wide awake, completely on instinct and reflex. I was up and ready to go for no reason, forgetting we were literal seas apart while answering the phone.

"Cox. What did I say about giving us a heads-up whenever you got news on that thing you're doing?" "...what thing?" I paused. "The show. Zales says she's printing out that picture and slapping it on the side of the truck for the whole of tomorrow." "Sir, your tweet's gotten the most likes and comments in the past hour, did you know that?" "Probie it's six in the morning." "...one month out of the crew and already you're losing your shine, mate? We're always up by five! That, or we never sleep." "Hey Cox, chief said the photo's gone through some heavy edits. They made you less ugly. Or more. Works both ways."

"What photo...?"

I stood in the middle of the room without a shirt on, groggy and disoriented.

"It's the official Twitter account of the show you're on, Cox. Parker's been keeping tabs." "Not on him, Capt. I was looking out for the other chef—that Tenner girl... love her accent." "Accent. Right."

I turned to the ball of snow all snuggled up underneath the covers, wondering if he knew a thing about the stuff they were putting up on Twitter. He poked half his head out of the sheets so that only his eyes were visible.

"You have any screenshots?" I asked the crew. They were up in flames.

"Cox, it's Twitter. Search for that shit yourself!" "Wait, you mean the chefs weren't told about their names and photos going up on socials as feature posts for hype?" I vaguely recalled attending a photo shoot in the show's official whites back in London. "...not really." "There's a bunch of people thirsting over your forearms, mate." "The new Victorian ankles." "Oh yeah, chief said you look good in a chef's jacket. Just not as good as a firefighter's PPE." I flipped Jaeger off on instinct. Sadly this was a phone call.

"Sir, are you famous now? You think I could sell your autograph for a quid?" "Not even a quid, Probie." I snorted. "And no, I'm not. Even if I was, it'll be for the wrong reasons."

Like riding on someone's coattails with a dumb title like 'celebrity chef son' or getting outed as the mystery chef guy and Andre's archenemy thing. The cherry on top was getting yelled at by some rich girl in a fur coat at his restaurant. Path to fame. Get rich. Real quick.

"They had a photo of bagel boy too, y'know. It's in the tweet featuring the judges." "His hair really stands out, sir. In a good way." "Saw a couple of his fans in the comments being supportive and all. Some guy by the name of Chip. Caught my eye cuz I saw his name under the tweet featuring your photo too."

I looked over, catching his eye and watching as he slowly slid back under the covers and pulled them over his head. "...fine I'll head over to Twitter."

They added that embarrassing T-shirts and banners were in the making, waiting for my big debut before dropping the call at the sound of an alarm for EMS. I sent Jaeger a text after. Break a leg.

"Good morning," a muffled greeting from the bed. His hair looked real soft in the pillows. "Is everything alright?"

"Apparently they put up feature tweets of the contestants an hour ago." I told him, Googling for the tweets and hitting 'save' on the photo featuring a certain genius.

"Yes. I um... I think production announced that yesterday on the group chat. And the mass email they sent. The tweets have been scheduled since Monday and most of the content was fixed by the social team before Bali," he sat up in bed, reaching for his glasses before glancing at the time.

I was blessed with the miraculous sight of several, magically undone buttons down the top of his pajamas. A fine view. Rare. Prized. Delec... table? End of vocabulary.

A timely text from Rexi buzzed on my phone. It was an image of Annie holding up her phone in bed at the treatment center, pointing at a zoomed-in pic of my hair in the featured tweet. She says you need at haircut.

I texted back, telling her that pic was dated and I'd already taken care of it beforehand. And that they had the budget to hire stylists just for that purpose in shows like these.

Annie knows. She's messing with you like always. In the past hour, every nurse who's stopped by her bed was shown that picture and made to follow that Twitter account. Take care Leroy, and don't worry about your mother. Annie's been hitting every goal at therapy the past week. She says she doesn't miss you, but I know she's lying. We're very proud of you.

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The energy in the room was like a box of matches.

It was simmering in the arena; a sheltered terrace area with large fans hanging from the high ceiling and barn doors pushed all the way to the end for the constant flow of air; every breeze, hot and salted from the sea. They had our stations lined up in the usual manner, alphabetically, from the front, and a little extra something on top of every counter. The mystery crate.

Heading down the aisle in the middle of the arena to our respective stations wasn't like the time in Florence—weary and exhausted from packed schedules and all that traveling. The heat seemed to stir in everyone else a desire to prove themselves, waiting for the exact moment to be struck. Like matches.

I didn't hate it. Even Andre decided not to make a fool of himself at the rehearsal, which was a rare occasion. The dress code was 'light and airy', to which I'd overheard Chef Saito asking if it meant wearing as little as possible. The idea brought about some form of amusement. It'd be hilarious if some of us decided to walk into the arena without a shirt. Slap on an apron and we'd probably make it past the authorities. And by authorities I mean a certain someone fond of dubbing me a criminal.

Not wrong.

"New day, new gay," Pao greeted in his signature smile, hands together, clasped in excitement. His gaze flickered to the producer stand on his right. "Sorry I—we cut that out. I think redo... I wasn't... I want to say... I don't know what I want to say, nevermind. It's too hot to think. Chefs! How are we feeling today?"

"Pao, one trip on a superyacht and you're permanently in the mood for a party I see," Amelia shook her head with a sigh, turning to the well-dressed critic with all his buttons done up. "Meanwhile Vanilla's back in collared shirts and dress pants..."

"I um, it was... well, the fun is over. Ironically, I feel much more at ease in my usual attire."

"Ay no, Banilla," Pao stepped forth, gesturing to the identical crates placed on top of each counter. They came with plain letter-sized envelopes. Sealed. "Sometimes, it's okay to wear less clothes! Try something new, you know. And actually, today's challenge... is also about trying something new.

"Each of your personal crates come with a personal something. A letter. From a loved one."

I paused, glancing down at the envelope. It had no name on it.

Up front, Andre began to sniffle. Instantly, he had a couple of stray cameras turning his way. A couple of oh's and aw's went around the terrace; it was no secret they were trying to bait an emotional reaction out of the contestants and the ones who caught on were quick to secure some precious screentime.

"Yes everyone," Amelia continued as soon as she was given the green. "The producers have reached out to a special someone in each of your lives and their task... was to pick a maximum of ten ingredients to fill your personal mystery box with.

"Your job is to use any of the selected ingredients to cook a sweet or savory dish incorporating local Indonesian or Balinese flavors.

"The catch: well, you'd have to pick one ingredient out of however many you find in your mystery crate, to be the star of your dish. You are not allowed to use anything in the pantry as a substitute. Quite the challenge... especially when some of your loved ones don't ever step into the kitchen."

I caught a glimpse of Du Bellay's envelope on the counter in front of mine. There was writing on it—like the letter was addressed to her, specifically. I looked back at mine, resting on top of the crate. It was blank.

"As professional chefs heading a kitchen, it is the undeniable truth that time spent with loved ones is extremely rare. A prized resource," Amelia turned to Pao, who nodded in agreement. "And while it is not often that you find yourselves forced to cook with stray ingredients found in a home kitchen, we think it is always important to remember the people we truly enjoy cooking for."

And with that, she took a step back—giving us the green to read our letters privately.

I slid mine out of the envelope and unfolded the single piece of writing. I'd expected Annie's chicken scrawl (my handwriting took after hers, clearly) but the sentences were penned in what looked like expensive ink. I knew those words. It'd been some time since I last saw them; they've always looked like their owner.

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Dear Leroy

I was once told by a fool that turning something seemingly common and ordinary into a choice that people fall in love with—and decide to come back to, time and again—is the highest praise any chef could receive. In that moment, I held the most awe and respect for those words a five-year-old could but at the same time, crowned its speaker as the world's greatest idiot for having believed such a concept of naivety.

I still think the same of him.

It is unfortunate how I came to realize the intriguing nature of his words as the years passed and soon found myself in love with something so stupidly charming and frankly absurd for a child his age to even understand. It is, and will always be, my oldest memory to date. Anything before those words were a blur. As childhood memories often are.

Needless to say, this fool I speak of gradually became a significant, perhaps even the most important person in my life—because due to unforeseen and extremely unfortunate circumstances, I have fallen in love with him. Alas, a tragedy.

Thankfully, I am of the opinion that such people should always remain an addition to one's life, and never a missing puzzle piece to complete the latter. And that falling in love should be an honor; not a method to fill a hole in one's heart.

I am honored to be so taken by a hard-headed fool who could never spell favorite or know the difference between odd and ode; a heart so ablaze with emotions I find myself disarmed by, and a way with words that always challenged the chill of my own. It is also regrettable that I find him unimaginably attractive when he makes a silly remark about my vocabulary, or interacts with animals and children in a way I could never. I am fond of his selfless nature that often goes unseen, even by the man himself. For what is the one thing ordinary chefs and firefighters have in common?

It is that people never know their names. Despite the incredibly taxing nature of their line of work and the direct, fundamental influence they have on the lives of the people around them, they remain out of sight unlike the celebrities of our day and age.

This reminds me of the one and only ambitious claim said fool has ever made in his entire life of tomfoolery. Admittedly, he has had many opportunities in the past and present—and perhaps, or so I hope, the future—to achieve said ambition. I can only assume it is an ongoing thing of his. That he should continually strive at this goal, ambition, motivation, aspiration, objective. I doubt those words ever crossed his limited vocabulary. And yet I'd wholeheartedly agree; this drive of his might after all be his calling. As such, I now present him one such opportunity.

Enough waiting around, it is time he do what he does best.

_________________

"You may now lift the lid of your mystery box to view the ingredients picked by your loved ones."

Staring back up at the world's greatest idiot was one—a single ingredient.

Vanilla beans.

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Impress me.

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